


some of us are looking at the stars

by kaydeefalls



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Eleanor of Aquitaine - Freeform, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Crowley, Historical Figures, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Johannes Gutenberg, M/M, Making an Effort (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Queer History, References to Oscar Wilde, Richard the Lionheart - Freeform, Slow Burn, discussions about gender and sexuality, implied Aziraphale/others and Crowley/others, so much faffing about history, wilfred owen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 03:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19898932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls
Summary: Five humans who were worth making an Effort for, and someone else worth quite a bit more than that.





	some of us are looking at the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Love is just ineffable, I guess.

> _We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars._ -Oscar Wilde

* * *

**Dover, 1895**

It wasn't quite raining, but wasn't quite not, either. Aziraphale tugged his scarf a bit tighter around his neck to ward off the chill and blinked droplets from his eyelashes, peering out to sea. The steam packet to Calais was slow to board this evening. Well, they likely hadn't expected such a press.

Someone stepped up beside him at the quay. Despite the cold drizzle, he felt a crackle of warmth along his side, like static electricity where their sleeves nearly brushed. "Since when are you back in England?" Aziraphale asked. "Last I heard, you were stirring up trouble in French Indochina."

He glanced over in time to see Crowley's faint grimace. "I'll have you know I was rooting for the Siamese in that one. Never much liked the French. Thought that whole embarrassment at Waterloo would put a rest to their imperialist impulses for a century or so at least, but no, they've just moved on to different continents instead. Anyway. I've been back in London nearly five years now."

Five years? And he hadn't bothered looking Aziraphale up once in all that time? Was he still sore over the dratted holy water incident? True, Crowley had once nursed a grudge over a spat in Babylon that had lasted nearly four centuries, so the thirty-odd years since they last spoke was hardly an outlier in their friendship. But still. They'd been running into each other more frequently of late, especially once they'd both settled semi-permanently in London in the 16th century, and he'd rather gotten used to seeing his counterpart at least once every few years. It was one thing when they were geographically distant. But...five years back in London?

"So what are you doing _here_?" Aziraphale demanded, stung. He turned his gaze resolutely back toward the anxious, furtive crowd of men queuing up for the ferry. "Surely _you_ have no pressing need to flee the country this evening."

Crowley sighed, which Aziraphale felt rather than heard. "I wanted to see for myself. Looks like the rumors are true."

"Has Wilde been formally arrested yet?"

"Yes, not long ago. _Gross indecency_ ," Crowley spat, as though blessing. "Such a stupid phrase. Nothing gross about it. Indecent, sure, but that's what makes it fun."

"Not so much fun for these poor sods," Aziraphale murmured. "The dam's broken now. If even Oscar Wilde can be pilloried for it -- well. No wonder they're fleeing to France." He shook his head sadly. The emotions radiating from that mass of men at the pier was enough to break one's heart. "No one should have to live in fear because of who they love."

"It's your lot who decided to make sodomy a sin."

Aziraphale looked up at him sharply. "No, it isn't. It never has been, not in itself. Not in the way we account for such things. Really, Crowley, you were _in_ Gomorrah at the time, you know full well _that_ had nothing to do it."

At least Crowley had the grace to look embarrassed, though he showed it only by kicking at a loose bit of planking. "I know, I know. And even if it did, _you_ would never...anyway. But it's still a damn shame. I _like_ Wilde. He stirs up more mischief with one bon mot than I manage in a solid year of temptations."

"You always did have a soft spot for a gadfly," Aziraphale said, placing a hesitant hand on his arm in apology. "I'm sorry, my boy, I'm just...unsettled. I thought we'd left the Inquisition well behind us." He sighed. "And I know you had nothing to do with this particular travesty. It's not really your style."

Crowley hunched his shoulders forward, frowning out into the mist. "Actually."

Aziraphale's stomach plummeted, and his hand grasped reflexively at the wool at Crowley's elbow. "You _didn't!_ Not Queensberry, really? That nasty little man?" He shook his head in disgust. "Oh, of course he's one of yours."

"Not _him_ , not the bloody Marquess," Crowley snapped, shaking him off. "Wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. He came by his vile nature honestly. I just might possibly have vaguely goaded Wilde into a slight...overreaction."

It took a minute, but then the penny dropped. "That misguided libel suit! That was your doing?"

"Well, it's just a dab of pride, innit?" Crowley almost sounded plaintive. "Not like that was ever much of a stretch with Oscar. I thought it'd be good for everyone, honestly, give him a chance to really stick it to the bastards. Didn't realize it'd end up like _this_." The words caught in his throat, and he scowled ferociously to cover the slip.

There was no point in harping on about it, about the ripple effect of lives marred or ruined through Wilde's staggering miscalculation. Pride goeth before a fall, et cetera, and Crowley was a demon, after all. It was the whole reason he was here on Earth.

He looked bloody miserable about it, though, and Aziraphale's chest ached for him. Him, and all these terrified so-called sodomites, desperately cramming aboard the last evening ferry for Calais before this blasted puritanical law could catch up with them, too.

"Could use a little miracle, maybe," Crowley said, like he was aiming for temptation and missing by several miles of bad road and rough weather. "Wilde, that is. If you wanted to thwart all this nonsense."

Aziraphale plucked at the fingertips of his gloves. They were getting so very soggy. He couldn't abide soggy gloves. Or socks, wet socks were even worse. "It would take more than a _little_ , at this point. But I did ask."

He didn't say anything further. He didn't have to. Ineffable, and all, and surely Crowley was thoroughly fed up with such excuses by now. But instead, the demon took a half step closer and rested a hand at the small of Aziraphale's back. Not quite pressing, barely more than hovering, but it warmed him all the same. "Oh, angel. It's always easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission. Haven't you learned that yet?" When Aziraphale chanced a sidelong glance, Crowley offered him the faintest of smiles. "Not that I bother with either. So why _are_ you here, then? If no one's going to have any miraculous changes of heart?"

"I have friends getting aboard this ferry," Aziraphale said quietly. "I just wanted to be sure they all got off safely."

The drizzle was turning into a steady rain. Neither of them moved until the ferry, laden well beyond its usual, slowly pulled away from the quay and began steaming off across the Channel.

* * *

**London, 1139**

"The White Ship of Barfleur!" Aziraphale cried, perhaps slurring the French a bit. They were several casks of ale into the evening. "I _knew_ that was one of yours! This whole bloody Anarchy--"

"I had nothing to do with the storm," Crowley protested unconvincingly. "But you have to admit, it was terribly convenient. The only male heir to the English throne lost, his sister Matilda off playing Holy Roman Empress or some rot, all while you and your lot were tangled up in that endless Crusade...I had to do _something_ to pass the time."

Aziraphale frowned. "I thought you got a commendation for the Crusade."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, that business had Heavenly Host written all over it," Crowley scoffed. "I got credit for a handful of minor atrocities, that's all. None of which I was in any way involved with, mind." He wrinkled his nose. "Can't stand the Holy Land these days. Too many blessings in five different religions hallowing up the place, it's like trying to slither across embers. No thank you."

"Seemed pretty well desecrated to me," Aziraphale said glumly. "And then I'm finally given leave to come back to England--"

"Thought you didn't like damp, miserable places?"

"You were the one who was whingeing about the damp, not me! I like London just fine nowadays. You can really tell the Romans left their mark here."

Crowley rolled his eyes. He was wearing his tinted glasses, of course, but Aziraphale could always tell. "You did love Rome."

"They were civilized," Aziraphale sniffed. "Anyway, as I was saying, here I am, finally back in London, only to discover that the whole nation's collapsed into civil war while these squabbling royal cousins battle it out--"

"It was _so easy_ , it was practically embarrassing," Crowley confided. "Simplest spot of trouble I've ever fomented. These stuffy Normans just _hate_ the thought of a woman inheriting _anything_ on her own merits, let alone a crown."

Aziraphale waggled an accusatory finger right in his face. "That's misogyny, that is! You and I both know perfectly well that gender has nothing to do with...well, anything, really."

"Yeah, well, put a word in with God that She might wanna work a little harder at spreading the good news, because lemme tell you, gender has everything to do with everything in Europe these days." Crowley gave Aziraphale a significant look. "You've certainly always favored the male form."

In more ways than one, which Aziraphale most certainly did _not_ say aloud. "That's just personal preference," he said instead, flushing in a way he'd do his best to chalk up to the ale later. "Purely aesthetic. It's neither here nor there. I notice you lean more toward men's clothing yourself lately."

"Because it's more convenient," Crowley said patiently. "Because people in this part of the world are absolute idiots when it comes to sex. Gender. Dangly bits or the lack thereof. All of the above. What were we talking about?"

"Anarchy. And the fact that my favorite restaurant in London's been destroyed in the fighting. All because you tempted some idiot barons into believing a woman wasn't fit to rule."

"In fairness, the Empress Matilda isn't particularly." Crowley screwed his face up. "Nothing to do with her lack of dangly bits, mind, just in terms of personality. Although King Stephen's not much better. Good with a sword, sure, but dumb as a box of rocks. Really, it's hardly my fault the English are fucked. Your side got anything up their sleeve, or are you all still too busy with your righteous war in the Middle East?"

"I worry that's going to be a recurring theme in the years to come," Aziraphale sighed. "But I have high hopes for the next generation. That new queen over in France is certainly a bright young thing, even if King Louis is a bit of a snooze."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "The Aquitaine chit? She's one of yours, then? Pity, I had an eye on her myself. Clever girl, nose for trouble. She's upheaving all sorts of social conventions over there already, and she's only, what, eighteen? If that?"

"Don't you dare try corrupting Eleanor," Aziraphale warned, drawing himself up in his seat to his full, albeit not terribly impressive, height. "I caution you, I shall most certainly have to thwart you if you try."

Crowley sat up a bit straighter himself, his glasses slipping down his nose just enough that Aziraphale could see the gleam in his yellow eyes. "Yeah? Excellent. Challenge accepted. You vs. me for the immortal soul of Eleanor of Aquitaine." He refilled Aziraphale's tankard with a grin. "And I thought the next few decades were going to be dull."

* * *

**Strasbourg, 1442**

It was Aziraphale's first time in any of the Free Cities, and he spent a few days just exploring the place, mostly by way of its various dining establishments. There was a sort of stew-like dish called baeckeoffe that was actually rather inspired, not to mention those delightful little fruit buns. But eventually he supposed he ought to start asking around about this Gutenberg fellow who'd gotten Gabriel all in a tizzy.

Town gossip pointed him toward a workshop somewhere along the river, and as he crossed the bridge, he spotted a woman in a dark wool dress emerging from a mill-like structure that might or might not be the workshop in question. Seemed as good a place as any to start. He picked up his pace a bit, calling out a friendly greeting as he neared her.

She turned and sighed. "Should've known. I thought I felt that itchy angelic aura of yours in the area. But this is a first, you sneaking up on me, well done."

"Oh, Crowley," he said, blinking. "I wasn't actually expecting -- that is, this is a new look for you. Suits you, though," he added, because really, _every_ look seemed to suit Crowley. It was deeply unfair.

"It'd been a while," Crowley said with a shrug. "Felt like a change."

Male, female, or otherwise made little difference to angels or demons. Of course if one chose to partake in certain _human_ pleasures, one would have to make a bit of an Effort; but what form that took was purely a matter of one's preference in the moment. Aziraphale's predilections might have generally tilted in one particular direction, but Crowley'd always had a rather more fluid sense of self.

"Anyway, what brings you to Strasbourg?" She gave him a shrewd look over the rims of her dark glasses. "Surely not little ol' me."

"No, of course -- wait." Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "You. I should've known. You're trying to influence this Gutenberg fellow, aren't you? Well, I won't have it. That is to say, my orders are to keep a very strict eye out for him, and if you're here, well, I suppose now I know why."

Crowley scoffed at that. "Who says Johannes is anyone worth keeping an eye out for?"

"If _you've_ taken an interest in him," Aziraphale said grimly, "he must be. _Johannes_ , is it?"

"It's his _name_ , angel. For Satan's sake. Look, I think we could both use a drink, and to not have this discussion in the middle of the street. Have you tried the local white yet? It's called Riesling, it's great, let's go imbibe absurd quantities of it." She hooked his arm very deliberately in hers and practically frog-marched them to a nearby tavern, which appeared to be miraculously devoid of other customers. Of course, it was hardly ten o'clock in the morning, so perhaps the miracle was that the place was open at all.

The Riesling was _excellent_ , though.

About three-quarters into the first bottle, Crowley leaned forward, propping her elbows up on the table between them and resting her chin in her hands. She'd ditched the glasses at that point, since no one was paying them the slightest bit of attention in this dark, gloomy corner. "All right, Aziraphale, let's have it. What do your lot want with Gutenberg? Quickie miracle? I'd be happy to take care of it for you in exchange for a spot of temptation in Paris, if you're willing to swing by the royal court on your way to wherever you're headed next."

"My orders were rather vague," Aziraphale admitted. "They just wanted me to have a look in, really. Gabriel heard he's been working on some sort of...infernal device."

"It's called a printing press, and it's damned clever. Nothing inherently good _or_ evil about it. Just a way of getting books done up quick and cheap." Crowley arched an eyebrow. "Want a free sample? They're no illuminated manuscripts, but still. I know how you are about the written word."

It did sound intriguing, now that she mentioned it. Surely a spot of indulgence wouldn't harm any...no! That was probably what Eve had thought of the apple, and look how _that_ ended up! Aziraphale fortified himself with a healthy dose of self-righteousness, and also a healthy swig of that delightful Riesling. "Don't try to tempt me, fiend. I hardly dare imagine what you're encouraging him to…to _print_!"

But Aziraphale had never been much good at that sort of moral outrage, so it lacked the bite one might have preferred.

"He's working on a bloody _bible_ right now, I'll have you know," Crowley huffed in exasperation. "Look, can't we agree to just call this one a wash? I promise not to tempt him into printing pornography or whatever else might offend the prudes Upstairs, you agree to leave well alone. Deal?"

"Why are you so keen for me to shove off right now?" Aziraphale frowned. "What are you getting out of this one, Crowley?"

"Nothing! I'm getting _nothing_ here, Hell's getting nothing, that's what I've been trying to tell you, so can't you just leave him be? _It_ ," she corrected hastily. "Leave it be, I mean."

The penny dropped. "Oh. _Oh._ This Gutenberg chap -- you're actually fond of him, aren't you?"

"Don't be disgusting," Crowley snapped. "I'm not _fond_ of humans, I _use_ them."

But there was something almost like fear in her yellow eyes, and it made Aziraphale's chest clench in a way he'd have rather not contemplated. His next words came out softer than he intended. "Not always you don't."

After a long, tense moment, Crowley pulled a face. "All right, shut up a minute. I need to be a lot more drunk for this conversation."

About twenty minutes and the better part of another bottle of Riesling later, she set her glass down a bit too hard and said, loudly and somewhat sibilantly, "Yessss. Fine. I think he's not entirely ussseless, as mortals go. Happy?"

Aziraphale bobbed his head, pleased. "I don't know why that was so hard for you to admit, you've always been good at making friends."

"Have I?" There was an odd intonation to it, not quite rhetorical enough, but she waved it away. "Whatever. You're the one whose cup runneth over with love for all humankind, and so forth."

"I do find something to love in nearly every one of them," he agreed primly. "They're all God's creations. And some of them are lovely companions." He leaned forward, with what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "So tell me about Johannes Gutenberg."

"What's to tell?" At Aziraphale's raised eyebrow, she rolled her eyes. "Oh, fine. He's a bit of a bastard -- that's not a complaint, mind -- and he's...clever, I guess. Curious, always has questions about everything, and gets all enthusiastic about the silliest things--"

She clamped her mouth shut, then, and stared fixedly into her empty glass. Aziraphale decided the gentlemanly thing to do would be to refill it, and did. "And is he, um, a good companion in...other ways?"

"Why, Aziraphale," Crowley drawled, pressing a hand to her chest as though scandalized. "Are we having the _sex talk_ now? Is that what this is? I didn't know angels condoned such things!"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, you know full well that even angels...indulge, from time to time." He pursed his lips. "Although it's been rather less encouraged since that whole mess with the nephilim. But procreation specifically was never my preferred, ah, indulgence."

Crowley was openly grinning, now, revelling in his awkwardness. "No, I rather suppose it wasn't. What's your type, then, eh? Tall, dark, and handsome?"

She said it jokingly, but something flipped over a bit in Aziraphale's stomach, and he couldn't quite meet those glowing amber eyes. "No, not at all, it's not about outward appearance," he said hastily. "Just a certain quality of the soul, perhaps. I don't know, it's not something I give much thought to, and it's not particularly _often_." He tried to laugh it off. "We have rather different taste in men, I expect."

Crowley gave him a look he couldn't even begin to interpret. "Oh, not always so different. And not always men, either." One corner of her lips quirked. "You can't have forgotten Eleanor of Aquitaine."

Aziraphale, taking an ill-timed sip of his wine, nearly choked on it. "What? That charming girl! You couldn't possibly -- do you mean to tell me that you and Eleanor were _lovers_?"

"Bite your tongue! I'm a demon, Aziraphale, there's no _love_ involved." Crowley shuddered. "Just a dash of mutually diverting lust. Listen, her twat of a husband locked her up in a tower for fifteen years. She was lonely, I was bored, these things happen." She waggled her eyebrows. "Don't tell me you never considered it."

"Not with Eleanor!" Aziraphale felt his face flush, the tips of his ears going hot. "But, ah, I did find her son Richard rather dashing."

Crowley cackled gleefully. "The Lionheart! Oh, do go on, this is the most entertainment I've had in _years_." She slammed the empty bottle on the table. "We're going to need a lot more wine, though."

It was well into the evening before they parted, after agreeing that their Arrangement could allow for a mutual detente on the subject of Gutenberg and his printing press. "It won't last, though," Crowley remarked, almost wistfully, as she sobered up.

"Well, we _are_ adversaries," Aziraphale pointed out. "We can't keep fobbing off our superiors on every such matter."

"No, no, not _that_." Crowley waved him off impatiently. "I mean Gutenberg. This isn't like -- he's mortal. They all are. They all run out of time, so damn quickly. It's not like, I dunno, back in Methuselah's time, when you could get used to seeing the same faces for a few centuries at least. The only thing that really _lasts_ is you and me. This lot, they're just...mayflies, compared to us."

Aziraphale took the opportunity to sober up himself. "Yes," he agreed gently. "That's part of what makes them so wonderful, though, isn't it?"

"I'd rather not get attached," she said abruptly. "I'm not sure it's worth it, anymore."

"So, then...Johannes?"

She shrugged, giving him a wry smile. "Well. Since I'm already here, seems a waste not to."

"Right." He felt awkward, all of a sudden. Out of place. His collar was a bit too snug about his throat, and he swallowed hard. "I'll just be popping off, then, I suppose. Must uphold my end of the deal! Paris, wasn't it?"

Crowley looked at him a long, inscrutable moment, then sighed. "Yeah. Sure. Knock yourself out."

* * *

**London, 1918**

When the armistice was announced on the radio, Aziraphale thought a moment, switched it off, and then locked himself in his bookshop to get roaringly drunk, alone.

Well, mostly alone. At one point, there was a knocking on the door that went on for a solid five minutes, but he ignored it. And about five minutes after that, Crowley materialized inside the shop anyway. He looked around until he found Aziraphale, curled up in a wingback armchair with a half-empty bottle of brandy in one hand and several others placed strategically within arm's reach. Crowley's gaze was shielded behind those damnable sunglasses, as usual, but he was frowning, and something small and petty and _mean_ took up bitter residence somewhere behind Aziraphale's ribcage.

"Why, hello, old chap," he said coolly. "Fancy meeting you here. Whatever brings you to my humble abode, on this day of all days?"

Aziraphale hadn't seen him since about a year or so before the war broke out. The bloody _coward_.

"Well," Crowley said, a little uncertainly. "I mean, it's Armistice Day. Peace has broken out, all those ridiculous humans you like so much returning to their senses, and rationing's sure to be lifted any day now. I thought you might want to celebrate." He glanced at the bottle now cradled against Aziraphale's chest. "Seems like you've got a head start, though."

"Maybe I needed one." Aziraphale gulped at the brandy, wrinkling his nose at the burn in the back of his throat. There was a reason he generally preferred wine. But wine wasn't nearly efficient enough when it came to inebriation, and he wanted to be an awful lot more numb to face this. Any of this. But Crowley especially, right now.

The demon seemed almost...hesitant. Wrong-footed. "The war's _over_ , Aziraphale. Isn't that, um, good?

Aziraphale laughed. It was not a happy laugh. "Is it? I suppose. Only about, what, sixteen million dead? Or thereabouts. Well, what's new?" He shook his head, the bitter facsimile of a smile dropping from his face. "You were right, you know. What you said, back in...Germany? Was it Germany yet? 15th century, I don't think it was Germany yet. Anyway, mayflies, was what you said, and they are. All of them. Stupid to get attached, really." He looked down at himself glumly. "This _waistcoat_ has already outlasted all of my friendships in the past century."

If he weren't a demon, if he had been anyone else, the look on Crowley's face just then might have been called sympathy. "Oh, angel," he said quietly. "Who did you lose?"

There were a lot of things Aziraphale could put up with, tolerate, accept even, but right at that moment, the one thing he absolutely could not abide was Crowley's _pity_.

"No one important," he snapped. "No Wilde, or Shakespeare, or -- or Eleanor of bloody Aquitaine. You know why not? Because he never had the chance to _become_ that. Just another faceless young soldier who'll never get to grow up. And sixteen million others. 'What passing-bells for these who die as cattle,' indeed?"

He was rather out of breath by the end of it, shaking a little with the adrenaline rush. Crowley stood frozen, rigid, staring down at him. He slowly removed his glasses, tucking them into a jacket pocket. His yellow eyes were very wide. "This is -- wow. I think this is the first time I've ever seen you truly angry. I didn't think you were even capable of it. Aziraphale--"

"Well, I suppose we're both learning new things about what the other is _capable_ of."

Crowley's jaw actually dropped. A myriad of different expressions flickered across his face, too rapidly for Aziraphale to read, until it settled into a sort of horror mingled with burgeoning rage. "Wait -- this war," Crowley said, angry heat licking around the edges of his tone. "You think this was _my_ doing?"

"Well, wasn't it?" Aziraphale cried out. "So much turmoil, pointless death, destruction, _madness_ \-- how could it be anything but Hell's work on Earth?"

Crowley's eyes blazed. "You can't be serious. You were on the ground for the bloody _Crusades_ , Aziraphale! All, what, _nine_ of them? You're one of the blessed Heavenly Host, and you have the audacity to claim _I_ would ever, in my immortal fucking life, have created something like _this_?" He practically hissed it out. "You know what this is? This is Heaven's idea of _obedience_. This is what happens when everyone just follows orders, when no one's able to stand up and fucking ask _why_. Just march them all lockstep to the slaughter!"

"But isn't that what your side has always wanted?" Aziraphale demanded, heartsick and suddenly, horribly unsure of himself, and desperate not to let that weakness show. "A glut of damned souls to fill Hell's ranks?"

The look Crowley shot him was pure venom, snake's fangs extended in a malice he'd never directed at Aziraphale before, not once, not _ever_. "None of those poor sods are ours. You know that damn well! They're not cattle, they're bloody sacrificial lambs. This was Abraham's covenant, this was the great flood -- these are _yours_ , angel. All yours. Oh, I suppose Hell will lay claim to a general or two," he added, a poisonous afterthought. "But it'll be a while yet before the likes of them shuffle off this mortal coil. Unlike their bloody cannon fodder."

He dragged in a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. Then he slipped his glasses out of his pocket and placed them firmly back onto his nose. "You're angry and you're drunk and you're grieving," he said, voice much cooler now, controlled. "I understand that. So I'll let you off the hook for this one, Aziraphale. But don't you dare try to lay this shit at my feet again."

Aziraphale felt very, very sober now, with no actual effort on his part. He wasn't angry anymore. Just...sad. And a little bit frightened. "Crowley? I'm so -- that is to say, I…"

"Sleep it off, angel," Crowley said flatly. "Or whatever it is you do. I'll see you around, yeah?"

And like that, he was gone. Aziraphale curled up into a tight little ball in his chair, hot tears pricking at his eyes, and did his best not to let a single one fall.

They never really spoke of it again. The next time Aziraphale saw Crowley was in a church in 1941, picking his way absurdly across the hallowed ground just to wrangle Aziraphale out of the trouble he'd so stupidly tripped right into, and he was finally able to release the breath he'd been holding for nearly twenty-three years.

Afterward, sliding into the passenger seat of the Bentley for the very first time, that miraculous bag of books clutched tight under his arm, Aziraphale managed to ask, "Am I forgiven, then?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Crowley said breezily. "C'mon, angel, let's get you home." But his hand brushed lightly against Aziraphale's knee as he reached for the gear shift, and it rested there for just a moment, warm and reassuring and something like absolution.

* * *

**New York City, 1969**

For their first few millennia on Earth, Aziraphale had genuinely believed that he kept running into Crowley purely by chance. Well, it was only logical. In the earliest days, there weren't all that many human settlements of note, so surely by the law of averages they'd trip over one another occasionally; and then, of course, seeing as their jobs frequently revolved around mutual thwarting, naturally such accidental contact must occur. As civilizations spread and grew, though, with so many very different areas of interest at any given time, crossing paths once or twice a century was a bit more frequent than one would expect, but still: not drastically out of the ordinary. And once they'd formalized the Arrangement, well! It gave a bit more structure to their periodic meetings, an organizational aspect to them, which Aziraphale found obscurely comforting.

It'd only been more recently -- since 1941, really, the Nazis and the church and the books -- that Aziraphale had started wondering -- or realizing, perhaps -- just how much of their long shared history of accidental encounters were due to very deliberate and strategic _intent_ on Crowley's part.

And how dangerous that would be for Crowley, should his infernal superiors ever catch wise.

Suffice it to say, Aziraphale was not really willing to let decades slip by without seeing his demonic counterpart anymore. Especially not now that he'd caved in and given Crowley the means for rather spectacular and permanent self-destruction. Playing with fire was one thing; playing with holy water was quite another.

So he might just have become rather more proactive about checking in on Crowley these days. When he got whiff of a spot of obvious demonic influence in the States, he locked up the shop for the indefinite future and transported himself directly to New York, with the obligatory memo to Gabriel that there was a minor situation that needed a hands-on approach, just in case anyone Upstairs happened to notice the sudden flurry of minor miracles required for transatlantic teleportation.

Once or twice, Crowley had mentioned in passing something about an 'angelic aura', which he seemed to be able to sniff out with fairly impressive accuracy when he so chose. Aziraphale had no such demonic sensor, but he thought he knew Crowley fairly well after six thousand years, and could rely with some authority on, well, his gut sense, to use a human axiom.

After two consecutive nights of rioting, the atmosphere in Greenwich Village was tense and weary. But if fighting were to break out again, it would likely be later in the evening, Aziraphale judged. So he found a lovely little Italian restaurant on Christopher Street and settled in to wait. If Crowley _were_ in the area, surely he would notice Aziraphale's angelic presence, and curiosity alone should lead him to seek out the source, so far from their usual stomping grounds.

There was a worryingly slender young man in a colorful scarf panhandling just outside; Aziraphale quickly miracled a passing businessman into a rather exorbitant and unexpected show of charity that could secure the boy a safe place to sleep for the next several months, should he so choose.

"You know he's probably gonna blow it all on, well, blow," came a familiar voice, practically in Aziraphale's ear.

Aziraphale brightened and turned with a smile. "Crowley! What a surprise! I didn't realize you were in town."

Crowley scoffed, sliding down into the chair beside his. "Save it, angel. Checking up on me, hmmm?"

"Fancied a spot of Italian," Aziraphale lied primly. "And, you know, the Italian-Americans have developed a really delightful interpretation on the cuisine. Pizza! Marvelous. Only in New York, mind. Well worth the occasional jaunt--"

"All right, all right," Crowley said, lips twitching in amusement. "Do it your way, Sinatra. I suppose if you were willing to risk the guillotine just for a bite of crepe, it's worth dodging a brick or two for a proper pizza."

The waiter came by then to take their orders, dropping off a decanter of house red that was quite alarmed to discover it was now a very rare Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru. Crowley's eyebrows leapt up into his fringe when he sipped it, but he refrained from commenting.

"Oh, fine, I did nip by to check in on you," Aziraphale finally confessed. "I read about the riots in the newspaper, and I suppose it somehow put me in mind of the Calais ferry in '95. I just wanted to make sure it doesn't get too out of hand."

Crowley swirled his glass, examining the play of color within its red depths. "Stonewall was a powderkeg, you know. The constant police raids, and all that. It didn't take any demonic influence to set the spark."

"Didn't it?"

"They're not running scared anymore, Aziraphale," he said quietly. "Not like in Wilde's day. They're _angry_. They're here, they're queer, and they're raring for a fight. Don't give me any credit for this one; I don't deserve it. They're doing just fine on their own. I'm only here to observe."

Aziraphale sighed, staring down at the table. "Well, then, I suppose I could lend a bit of influence where I can, while I'm here. If there's anything I can do to help. I don't like seeing people...hurting."

"I know." It could be tricky to read Crowley's expressions behind the dark glasses, but there was something that seemed to soften in the tilt of his head, the curve of his lips. He wasn't quite smiling. "I'm sure it'll all work out in the end, angel. Ineffable, right?"

"Don't make fun," Aziraphale chided. "I know you don't have any faith in the divine plan, but--"

"I have faith in _you_."

Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat, his all-too-human heart doing a strange stuttering half-step. He didn't know at all what to do with the warmth in Crowley's tone, the sincerity in his face. For the first time, perhaps, he was glad he couldn't see Crowley's eyes, because that might have undone him entirely.

Fortunately, before the cold panic could fully settle into the pit of his stomach, Crowley leaned back in his chair and turned away to one side, as though distracted by something just outside the window. "Anyway, I don't expect to be in town long. Things to do, people to corrupt, you know the drill. Hell doesn't look too kindly on this sort of vacation. Not that they look kindly on anything, you know, but all the same."

"Oh." Aziraphale took a good swallow of the wine to clear his throat. Shame, really; this quality of wine was meant to be sipped, not gulped. But needs must. "You're not getting any credit for this Downstairs, then? I should think you'd get another commendation for it. Mayhem, you know, and sticking it to The Man and whatnot."

"Nah, not submitting any paperwork on this," Crowley said easily. "This isn't work, it's sheer pleasure. Besides, I figured I owed Oscar one, by way of apology."

Aziraphale blinked while his brain scrambled to find the connection. "You never apologize, and Wilde's been dead nearly seventy years. Surely you're not still -- oh," he interrupted himself, struck by it. He thought of that drizzly evening at the quayside in Dover, the overloaded ferry, Crowley's miserably hunched shoulders. "I hadn't thought, but -- I should have realized. He was one of your...dalliances, wasn't he?"

Crowley had always hated the word _lover_ , preferring to insist that his sporadic interludes with assorted mortals were entirely lust-based affairs. But they weren't, Aziraphale knew. Not like the occasional direct physical temptation, which were significantly fewer and further between than one might assume. No, when Crowley took up with a human, it was only when he genuinely _cared_ for them, in his own way.

Aziraphale kept his tone gentle, unwilling to offend. "I thought you...didn't, anymore. Not in centuries." Human lives were so fleeting, after all. Aziraphale had learned to find the beauty in their ephemeral nature, to catch up sparks of loveliness before they flared out, achingly sweet in their brevity. But Crowley...something had shifted in him, over time. He didn't allow himself to grow attached. It hurt him too much. Falling had stripped him of his ability to sense love; without that consolation, only the sharp pain of loss was left to him. And he'd never been the sort of demon to indulge in torture.

"I don't," Crowley said flatly. "Wilde was the exception."

"He was certainly exceptional, at that." Aziraphale hesitated, uncertain if he should reach out. Crowley could be so prickly about touch sometimes. And right now, his expression might as well have been carved into granite. Instead, he offered up a smile, lifting his glass in a sort of toast. "Well, Wilde was a bit of brawler himself in his youth, Irish boxer that he was. I imagine he would have quite enjoyed all this."

Crowley's face suddenly split into a fierce grin, and he inclined his own glass to return the gesture. " _Wilde_ ," he said, "would've thrown a hell of a lot worse than a brick."

* * *

**London, After**

They dine at the Ritz. They linger there quite a long time, really, far too long for a simple luncheon; they listen to the pianist, and sip champagne, and order another round of little sweets just for an excuse not to leave, not yet. But Aziraphale feels obligated to give up the table for the dinner rush, so eventually it comes to an end, like any of these countless earthly delights. It's what's so dear about them, Aziraphale supposes. Why he can't resist these little indulgences, because before you know it, they're gone.

_Not anytime soon, though,_ he thinks, almost giddy with sheer relief. And for the first time: truly _free_.

Out on the street, Crowley hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. "Aziraphale...come back to mine, maybe?"

He's not meeting Aziraphale's eyes, not even from behind the protective shield of his sunglasses, his whole long body braced for disappointment. And dear lord, of course he is. How many times has Aziraphale rejected him over the millennia, in a thousand tiny ways, albeit mostly unwittingly? If Aziraphale could go back in time and give himself a good swift kick in the bum, he would, gladly. But all he can do is press on forward.

"I'd rather stop by the bookshop," he says, while reaching out to place a placating hand on Crowley's wrist. "Just to see for myself that it's all in one piece! But I'd love for you to join me."

Crowley twitches in Aziraphale's light clasp, then stills. He stares intently down at the place where their skin touches. "Yeah, all right."

Aziraphale doesn't let go the whole walk to the shop, and Crowley never tries to pull away.

He does finally release Crowley at the door, his fingers shaking a little as he fumbles with the key. True, he could simply miracle the lock open, but some rituals are important. Stepping back into the familiar little shop and breathing in that wonderful, musty smell of paper and ink and vellum soothes Aziraphale's soul more than he would have dreamed possible. He closes his eyes a moment and just revels in it, feeling the peace and rightness settle deep into his very bones.

When he comes back to himself, he opens his eyes to see Crowley lounging against a dark bookcase, watching him with an expression one might almost describe as wistful. His glasses have been tucked into a pocket, and his lovely eyes gleam amber in the warm lamplight.

"What?" Aziraphale asks.

"Nothing," Crowley says, with a faint smile. "It's just...good to see you back where you belong. With everything back where it belongs." His lips tighten. "The fire -- well, just be grateful you didn't see this place like that. It would have broken your heart."

"Like it broke yours?" Aziraphale asks softly. Crowley jerks, a full-body twitch, and he straightens. Aziraphale quickly goes on: "I didn't realize, not until after you told me the shop had burned down. But when you said you'd lost your best friend -- that was me, wasn't it? You came back here looking for me, and all you found were flames."

Crowley shudders, twisting away. He stalks over to the back shelf where Aziraphale has always kept a stash of liquor. "You were _gone_ ," he hisses, movements sharp as he sorts through the bottles. "I couldn't feel you anywhere. I can _always_ feel you, but you were nowhere. You were gone."

"I know. I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault," Crowley mutters. "Bastard of a day, though."

"Honestly, I'd thought you'd have been halfway to Alpha Centauri by then."

Crowley slumps bonelessly into the armchair, bottle of something dark in hand. But he makes no move to open it. "Not without you. Not much point to it, is there, without you?"

Something tightens impossibly within Aziraphale's chest. There's a thrum of adrenaline in his veins, a staccato rhythm pulsing through his arteries, and how could he have spent so many years surrounded by so many diverse, delightful books and still be so utterly rubbish at finding words for himself when it most matters? "Even after all those awful things I said to you?"

"What awful…? Oh, bless it all, you don't know from awful," Crowley scoffs. "Spend more than an hour or so in Hell next time, you'll hear _awful_. That was just a bit of a spat, happens all the time, nothing even worth remembering."

"It's worth remembering, because I need to apologize for it," Aziraphale retorts. "For all of it, all my holier-than-thou self-righteous posturing--"

"You're an _angel_ , it comes with the territory, you don't think I'd hold a grudge--"

"No, you don't, do you? You never do. You always forgive me, whether I deserve it or not. Armistice Day," Aziraphale goes on, stepping closer. "I never said. I'm so sorry for laying all that at your feet."

Crowley blinks, then waves it off. "That was literally a hundred years ago, what do I care now? It was war, I'm a demon, of course you assumed--"

"I shouldn't have. I should have known you better by then. I _did_ know you better by then." Aziraphale takes a breath, and then another. He seats himself opposite Crowley, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, and looks Crowley directly in the eye. "I never told you, when you asked. Who I lost. His name was Wilfred. Budding poet, horrified by what he saw on the front. He was killed only a week before the war ended."

"Angel--"

"I'd only just gotten the news, you know, earlier that day, and then I heard about the armistice." Aziraphale looks down at his hands. "It's no excuse, really, for how I spoke to you that evening, but...well, that's why I was so out of sorts. You'd caught me at a bad time, I'm afraid, and bore the brunt of it."

Crowley nods slowly. He fiddles with the label on the bottle -- some kind of scotch, looks like -- but still doesn't take a drink. "He was...one of yours, then?"

It's been a while since they've discussed such matters, but still, the implication is plain. "Not as such," Aziraphale admits. "We were never...intimate. But would he have been worth making an Effort for, if the situation had arisen? Yes, perhaps." He huffs out a breath, not really a laugh. "You know, I don't remember what he looked like now. His poems -- he wrote a handful -- I could recite every word. But I can't even picture his face."

"But you did love him."

"No," Aziraphale says, exhaling sharply on it. "Well, that is to say, yes, a bit. The way I love all of them -- all humanity. I'm an angel, it's what I do, it's what I'm made of. But Wilfred, specifically, he was -- well, yes, a bit more special. A bit more cared for. Like, oh, like Johannes was for you, or Wilde, or that clever Athenian lady you were so fond of in the two hundreds or thereabouts. They can be so marvelous, these mayflies." He smiles, though it feels somewhat wobbly. "Humans are wonderful, really, and if I _had_ died for standing up against Heaven for them, it would have been well worth it."

"No," Crowley says at once, voice raw. "It wouldn't have been. Aziraphale -- I was never willing to die for the _humans_. Earth is great, don't get me wrong, no place I like better, and sure, humanity's fun and all, but I wasn't fighting for _them_. I'm not like you, I'm selfish, Aziraphale. I was only fighting for _you_."

"I know."

Crowley pushes on, full steam ahead: "And I know you don't want to hear it but -- wait, what?"

"I _know_ , Crowley." Aziraphale reaches across the gap between them, pressing a hand against Crowley's knee. "What I meant to say was -- no, I didn't _love_ him, not like that. I've never loved anyone else, really. Not the way I love you."

The silence stretches between them, taut and disbelieving. Crowley looks at Aziraphale as though he's never seen him before in his life.

"You said it once, in Strasbourg," Aziraphale goes on. "That the only thing that truly lasts is you and me. I didn't hear you then, not properly. Couldn't, really. You must've said it a thousand times since, in a thousand different ways, and I was never quite ready to hear you. But I am now. And I'm so very sorry, love, for keeping you waiting so long."

Somewhere in the shop, a creaky old grandfather clock chimes the hour. What hour, Aziraphale couldn't say, because all his attention is focused solely on one ancient, familiar, dear face.

Crowley exhales. He very deliberately and carefully sets the full bottle of scotch down on the floor. And then he places his long, slender hands on either side of Aziraphale's face and pulls him into a harsh, desperate kiss.

Aziraphale goes as bidden at once, without the slightest hesitation. He practically tumbles forward onto Crowley's lap, clutching at the fabric of his jacket, his shoulders, running one shaky hand up into his hair to cradle the back of his skull, and kisses back like his immortal soul depends on it.

The next few minutes are sheer madness, all hot mouths and scrabbling hands and inarticulate sounds swallowed before they can become words. Eventually Aziraphale laughs, breathless, and pulls back just a smidge. "Shh, love, shh," he murmurs, gently knocking their foreheads together. "There's no rush, I'm not going anywhere, we have all the time in the world."

Crowley keens in the back of his throat, pressing his lips against Aziraphale's cheek, his neck, back up again to his mouth. "Too fast again?"

"Fast has its place, certainly," Aziraphale gasps, squirming as Crowley finds an unexpectedly sensitive spot behind his ear. "I, ah, don't want to discourage fast. Fast can be absolutely -- oh! -- delightful. I just want to make sure you know, I'm here. I'm _yours_. No one's watching anymore, no one cares, we can do what we like for as long as we like--"

Crowley pauses kissing him to look him dead in the eyes, fingers pressing into his collarbone. "I know you think demons aren't capable of love--"

"You, as always, are the exception to every rule."

Crowley's cheeks flush a little, but he presses on doggedly. "But what I'm saying is, I've loved you since roughly the beginning of time, angel. So before you go making promises, you'd better know what you're in for--"

Aziraphale can't help but kiss him again, then, fiercely. He's a bit out of practice when it comes to this sort of thing, but he's pretty sure he gets his point across, trying to pour every ounce of love he's ever felt into it, to reassure Crowley that he _understands_ now, that they're finally, truly on the same page.

"So what d'you say, angel?" Crowley murmurs, breath warm against his lips. "Worth making an Effort?"

Aziraphale slips his arms around him, tugging him closer still, until their hips are flush together. "Oh, my dear," he says, laughing, "with you, it's no effort at all."


End file.
